Solstice

In our human world where time is ordered into diaries and calendars, this tired old year is coming to an end and a shiny new one is about to begin, but in the natural world, of which our gardens and we too are part, there are no stops and restarts. No deadlines of the ‘I must get this done before Christmas’ kind, just the ebb and flow of the cycles of life, the seasonal changes we see in our part of the planet as it responds to the oblique angle of it’s orbit around the sun.

Now is the time of the winter solstice, when we in the northern hemisphere are tilted to face away from our sun and into the cold dark depths of deep space. But even as these short days deprive us of light and warmth, we know that our earth’s turning, however slow it might seem, will in time cause our days to stretch out as the hours of light lengthen. With them will come all the things we love our gardens for, fresh new growth, spring’s first flowers, glorious birdsong and the return of the frogs to spawn.

In the meantime, our December gardens have lots to enjoy, even on cold grey days indoors we can still appreciate our views through windows. There are more small birds visiting seed heads and feeders now as resident goldfinches, blue and great tits are joined by black caps, siskins and redpolls and the blackbirds feasting on berries in the trees are joined by migrating redwings and fieldfares.

When the sun does shine on my garden’s shortest days, its low slanting rays make the beech leaves in the hedge glow golden, the cornus stems gleam vivid red and the delicate dew drop grass heads sparkle.

My garden in December can lift my spirits more than at any other time and it reminds me, even in the darkest days, that nature is reliable when nothing else seems to be, the light will return.


Suddenly, it's winter

Suddenly, it’s winter. Three days ago in a blast of snow under a cold leaden sky, it barged in like a truculent teenager, only to be replaced in just one day by a bright afternoon sun warm enough to cause steam to rise from the wet windowsills. The sun set and when it rose again a hard frost had left behind ice rimmed foliage, a slushy surface to the pond and the most glorious diamond dew drop seed heads hanging from the panicum grasses.

Beautifully photogenic but hard on my garden’s wild creatures which have to cope with whatever conditions they are obliged to endure, no matter how quickly they change. Dunnocks creep along the path like little mice, keeping close to the undergrowth, hopping up occasionally to peck at a dried seed head or other edible morsel. Blackbirds make their way methodically around the cotoneasters, of which there are many self sown here, daintily picking and swallowing the bright berries one by one. The seed feeder * is constantly busy with blue, coal and great tits darting quickly in and out, goldfinches taking their time and their fill at a leisurely pace, while beneath, a fat wood pigeon waits patiently for food to fall at his feet. They all need to be wary and swift to leave if need be, the sparrow hawk is like lightening.

It’s inevitable that we assign human traits to animals, magpies make me think that they are quarrelsome, too bold for their own good, but very bright. They move through the garden in a gang and if the dog has gone out for his morning walk and I have foolishly put his breakfast on the doorstep for his return, half of it will have been taken by the time he does. I don’t begrudge them the treat, they’re just doing their best to survive, like every other creature in our gardens they evolved to succeed in our landscapes which of course we humans have changed so much and for so long that we have no memory of how biodiverse it was and should be.

We are only custodians of our little patch of earth temporarily, but however short that time we can help it to support its inhabitants and visitors especially through winter. They have the ever more changeable weather to cope with just as we do, but without the luxury of a warm coat, hat and gloves, so they need the cover of dense hedges, drifts of leaves, perennial stems, seed heads and piles of logs.

In other words they need us to leave the garden as nature intends for the winter, decaying vegetation, old growth, tussocks of grass and tangled messes to take shelter in, and thinking of human traits, neat and tidy are not desirable ones to assign to anything in the garden, especially not at the beginning of winter.

* Please make sure to keep bird feeders really clean to help prevent the spread of deadly viruses, I disinfect and wash mine every week.

Late flowers and insect food

This week began with the luxury of an extra hour as the clocks went back so I spent a little of my longer Sunday morning in a leisurely wander around my dew soaked garden. Mist hanging in the valley is always promising and as it drifted off down the river valley to evaporate and disappear, our level of the hillside poked up out of it, the sun reached us and the garden glowed.
The morning light of autumn has a warmth to it which belies the air temperature, but I was still surprised that the wild honey bees, which came of their own accord this spring to an old hive in a shrubby corner of the garden, should be so taken in by it. They were as busy as on any warm summer’s day, the baskets on their hairy little legs bulging with pale pollen.

Not far away from here is a very ornamental garden, its keen owner grows bouquets full of late season exotic flowers and as the weird weather exacerbates the phenological mismatch caused by climate change, I have splashed out on a few plants of different Echinacea, Aster and Rudbeckia species. They all flower into autumn and should, I hope, extend the availability of forage for both the honey bees and importantly the species of native bees and other insects still flying.

The ivy flowers appear to be stripped bare now and the dead headed Buddleja are long over, but Geranium ‘Rozanne’ is still going strong, as is an unnamed Persicaria amplexicaulis. Originally one large and long flowering clump, I have split and re-split it into dozens of smaller pieces which now live all around the garden, growing away and gathering steam to feed generations of bees and wasps to come.

As the perennial flowers give up the ghost, their seed heads will remain to decorate our winter and provide cosy homes for unknown and unnamed tiny creatures. Next to flower will be Mahonia, beloved by queen bumble bees it has the heady and unseasonal scent of lily of the valley, and as we wait into winter the for hellebores to flower, Viburnum tinus fills the gap.

I’ve never seen insects on mine, which logically must be as much to do with cold weather and lack of insects as the viburnum’s food value. Beelife.org tells me that they are full of pollen and nectar and although Gardeners World disagrees, I shall keep a look out this year especially in mild spells.

These plants have all been deemed to be ‘garden worthy’ but none of them are native to us. There are people who would deny them their place in a wild garden for that reason, but as I watch the feral honey bees coming back to their hive, I can see how active they still are and how much they need the food they’re finding in those flowers which evolved with other insects in other ecosystems far from ours.

To all the insects still flying and the spiders, hedgehogs and birds which they in turn feed, any flowers still providing sustenance are valuable, so as my garden’s human ecosystem engineer I shall carry out some disturbance by putting in my new plants, dispersing them around the garden and in doing so add a little more diversity.
The time to be purist is long gone, biodiversity loss continues apace, it really is a matter of life or death, and not just for the late flying insects.

Note. Phenological mismatch is the way interacting species are changing the phases of their life cycles at different rates.

Harvesting sunshine

A drift of dark eyed golden Rudbeckia smile back at me from over the pond, cheerfully radiating sunshine even as the clouds roll in, the wind gets up and a cool damp draft blows down my neck.

Autumn is beginning to show its true colours and as the weather turns so do the leaves. Falling levels of light and cooling temperatures trigger changes in all of us. While we pile on layers of warmer clothes, deciduous plants are getting ready to shed their layers of leaves. Feeding, which leaves do for their plants through spring and summer, is forgotten for now, surviving winter takes priority.

Chlorophyll breaks down and its loss reveals the reds and yellows of anthocyanins and carotinoides, the temporary blaze of colour we love to see in autumn. By the end of the season and leaf fall, all that energy provided by sunlight has been stored by plants in their fruit, roots, bulbs, corms and tubers for the next generation or to see them through the winter.

When we plant bulbs for next spring flowers we are burying the sun’s energy under the soil and as we pick and eat fruit, nuts and seeds, we are harvesting sunshine just as the birds and small mammals do. Each autumn a squirrel makes holes around my garden and hides the hazel nuts he beats me to picking every year.

While I might rarely get to taste the nuts from my garden’s hazel trees, I will enjoy the sun’s energy stored in the blackberries from the hedge and windfall apples. The least blemished I’ll munch on soon, crisp and fresh. Others will be cooked and frozen for a burst of light on dark winter days.

Some people go abroad on holiday for their dose of winter sun but I take mine at home, harvested as berries, fruit and green winter vegetables. Grown specially or foraged, picked as fresh as it’s possible to get, straight from my garden and full of stored sunshine.



Storms and a smug grin.

Our gardens change with the landscapes which surround them, and today thunder storms have buffeted both my garden and the hills around me. Now gone, they have left a wet blanket of mist ensuring we end the day obscured from one another.

The summer which took forever to arrive has flounced off in a tantrum, the washing hangs sodden on the line, my shorts have gone back in the drawer, replaced today by jeans and a jumper. For once though I timed a garden task just right and cut the last little patch of long grass in my meadow lawn yesterday.

It had to be done or the sodden vegetation would sit all winter, as it did one year when I braved the criticism of strict meadow managers, but the following spring’s bare patches and subsequent coarse grass tussocks taught me a lesson. Now I grit my teeth and get it done, consoled by the knowledge that I am following nature’s pattern and the traditions which led to the assembly of flora and fauna that in years past would have been common pasture species, and in a few fields, still are

I dread it though and hate the damage I cause as young frogs and grasshoppers leap out of the way, moths flutter up, disturbed from their daytime hiding place and vulnerable, and this year besides the usual and anticipated victims of homelessness, a long legged and thin bodied spider slowly carried her burden of a huge egg sack out of my way as I stood watching, apologising profusely.

Although the rain seems to have made little difference to the pond’s water level, it must have been just the encouragement the wildflower seeds I sowed a few weeks ago needed, little pairs of seed leaves are sprouting. I’m relieved and delighted to see them and reassured that my plan to follow nature’s lead and take advantage of the damp humid conditions, to sow what I hope will be new life into my poor little meadow lawn.

While I’ve been sitting with a cuppa building up a bit of momentum, a fat pudding of a wood pigeon has been hoovering up sunflower hearts from beneath the busy bird feeder and I’ve been wondering if he will feel full enough now to leave the broccoli and kale leaves alone. We have hedgehogs to chew the slugs and snails, but the baby I’ve been feeding isn’t going to scare off a pigeon any time soon.

There are gold and green finches, blue and great tits on the feeder but just out of interest I ask Merlin (a brilliant app) to listen and identify the other birds twittering and chirping in the trees. Besides the robin, dunnock and jackdaw which are almost always around, within ten minutes it also heard grey wagtail, spotted flycatcher, pied flycatcher and hawfinch. Justification for a smug grin on my face for the rest of the day I think!



Going with the flow

I’ve always thought that the more consideration we put into something then the better the end result will be, and I apply this rule of thumb to my garden with fingers crossed and in hope rather than any certainty. Years of experience and a fair amount of knowledge have taught me that there are an awful lot of variables affecting the life of our gardens and the weather with all its many permutations is one of the biggest.

This year I haven’t joined in with the summer grumblers about lack of warmth and sunshine, because much as I appreciate both and know how much my garden’s wildlife need them too, the variable, unpredictable weather is allowing me to begin to repair the remains of my sad and sorry former meadow lawn.

More reminiscent of April than June and July, odd days of sun followed by showers have been just perfect for seed germination so rather than wait for autumn, as would almost always be most sensible, I’ve made a start.

Like a very small herd of herbivores being moved on quickly by the scent or sight of a carnivore, I’m cutting, scraping and raking small patches at a time, seeding a wild flower mix, then stopping for a while before moving on to the next area. Progress might be slow but as I watch for and see signs of germination, it feels sure and I can choose the species mix for each small space as looks most appropriate.

In the shade of trees is a woodland mix, moving away from them as their influence lessens, I’ve scattered seeds of hedgerow and semi shade species and out in the open, sunny areas I’ve tried a ‘restoration’ mix together with seeds I’m gathering from local verges and from my own remaining wild flowers.

Adapting the way I interact with my garden as a human version of an ecosystem engineer I remind myself that change is our only constant where the natural world is concerned and going with the flow at the moment seems the only way to go.


Surprise, surprise!

Flowers are at their most abundant now and picking them as examples of flower shapes to suit a range of different insects’ tongues for a workshop, I realise that I have collected enough to fill a large bucket. Seeing them all packed in together like a florist’s nightmare, in every shape, size and colour, I realise that despite the foraging opportunities their abundance gives my garden, I have seen far fewer numbers of insects this year.

Yet some seem plentiful, like the cinnabar moths in the veg patch. The adults flash red as they lift off from the foliage when I brush past and I see their pyjama striped caterpillars fattening up nicely as they devour more of the ragwort leaves daily.

The garden tiger moths are noticeable too, I see them lying flat on horizontal leaves, seemingly oblivious to the risk of predators, perhaps their defence is in their vivid wing colours. Not so an emerald moth whose soft green colouration must make it easy to hide itself in foliage, but resting by the front door on the white rendered wall doesn’t seem such a good idea. I’ve never seen one before so he was a nice surprise, as was the water scorpion found with, and indeed eating, other species of my pond’s life in a ‘kick’ sample taken yesterday.

There have been unexpected flowery surprises too, like a strangely but beautifully shaped wild carrot and the appearance of opium poppy ‘Lauren’s Grape’ which opened up its lovely silky petals among the runner beans last week, a surprise after complete failure with a packet of seed sown at least three years ago. Also a plant reminiscent of a red stemmed dandelion among a salad mix which, left uneaten, has now matured and is flowering beautiful sky blue stars. Mystery solved, it’s a chicory.

In a tiny community garden in town, we volunteers found a broomrape deep in the undergrowth, a cause for pause and several photos. But the biggest surprise came at the weekend with a swarm of honey bees massing over my pond. I watched as so many swirling little bodies filled the view from a window and as I dithered, torn between wanting to see where they were heading and not wanting to get in their way, like a murmuration of starlings, they dropped suddenly behind a beech hedge to where an old hive has been standing empty after the death of the last colony over the winter.

To my delight, they didn’t just cluster on it but made their way inside and seem to have taken up residence, I had no idea that a swarm would choose to live in a man made hive. What a nice surprise!



A Sense of Place

We all need to feel that we belong where we live and most of us have empathy for those uprooted from their communities, but rarely do we give plants the same consideration. Perhaps we only see these needs as human emotional ones and not as actual physical demands.

Right plant right place has been a gardening mantra for years, but it’s often been fulfilled by little more than lists of plants suitable for the conditions we might have like dry shade, hot and sunny or damp. We don’t seem to really consider the intimate needs of the living beings we’re working with and barely give a second thought to their relationships with their surroundings and fellow creatures.

The pyramidal orchids in my meadow lawn are a case in point. The numbers of their flowering spikes increased during the first few years of our tenure here and my efforts at meadow management. Then the dog came along and since his arrival their numbers have reduced yearly and now I fear that this summer will be their last. His unique brand of high nitrogen liquid fertilizer has destroyed their habitat and their exacting requirements of low fertility and specific fungal mycelium. Thick tussocky grasses now feel right at home here whereas the orchids sadly do not. I feel the loss of my lovely orchids but biodiversity is the real loser here, the scrappy old lawn which blossomed into a flower filled meadow is in decline and no doubt with it the insects and invertebrates dependant on its flowers too.

A reflection of the wider state of nature sadly, but not all is doom and gloom, the rest of my garden seems to be just fine and changing positively in the ways it wants to with seedlings appearing where they feel at home and surprises whenever I delve into the undergrowth, peer into the pond or listen to the birds.

Some are permanent residents, some just passing through and others are returning home from migration. Each year about this time I hold my breath as I scan the sky on warm evenings when the winds have been from the south, and yesterday the swifts came back. I grinned and sighed in huge relief as they whirled overhead, screaming like banshees, as overjoyed to see their home as I was to see them.

Today as I walked through town, I see Erigeron and Scabious have found their place in the cracks and crevices of paving by a disused shop doorway. They will feed little insects which in their turn will make a meal for the swooping, swirling swifts and in the woods where the dog takes his walks, perfectly at home, the wild garlic covers the soil in a smelly carpet of starry flowers and leaves to be foraged for lunch.






Hope

There’s an unseasonal gale howling it’s way around my garden this weekend, but determined to be outside, in a dry patch I peer down through the thrashing grass of my meadow lawn into the now shrinking gaps of bare soil for any signs of germination from the yellow rattle which I sowed in hope last autumn.

I can just see the tiniest seed leaves, as yet unidentifiable, and hope that they have endured the wettest of winters and will now begin to grow.

I also scan the surface of the water at the very edges of the pond for evidence of the wriggling black commas of tadpoles in the hope that some of the far fewer than usual blobs of spawn may have survived. I see a predatory newt suspiciously hanging mid depth just a few feet away and wonder if he’s spotted them first.

It is also in hope that I lift the bubble wrap covering rows of pots in the greenhouse and ask after their welfare. They are labelled cosmos, broccoli, kale, foxglove and sunflower, a motley assortment, all of which are as yet unmoved by my attempts at conversation..

The pots appear to contain nothing but compost, but experience has taught me that hope in the processes of nature is seldom misplaced and that patience really is a virtue worth cultivating. I restrain my itchy fingers from poking about in the compost.

In the veg beds however, new life is romping away. Self sown from last year’s plants, the forget me nots are not only a picture of vigorous growth but beginning to flower too, so in hope that they will not notice a change of location, I bless the fact that April is a very accommodating month for uprooting and replanting, and carefully move them to share space in the pots of tulips by the front door. Despite the forecast rain I water them in well, settling their roots as if tucking them into bed and hope that they will forgive the intrusion and continue to thrive.

It’s human nature to hope, and I seem to do an awful lot of it in my garden. Hope in people I find can sometimes be misplaced, but it’s also been my experience that pinning my hopes on mother nature never disappoints.



Life on the edge

As my garden continues to wild itself, the definition between the areas conventionally thought of as border, lawn and pond margin has all but disappeared. Traditionally gardens are all about definition and clearly demarcated areas, but nature is all about ebb and flow. Never static, plants move around, flowering and seeding in conditions which suit them and then their offspring, perhaps finding themselves in an even more comfortable home, thrive and spread their seed in turn.

If these plants are natives, they are usually called invasive weeds, but if they are ornamentals they might stand more chance of being appreciated and their reasons for moving around might be considered.

This spring is still at an early stage, but its lovely new growth has already shown me how the Primula family members have spread themselves from shady borders to the now semi shaded meadow lawn. Little rosettes of leaves drifting out into the grass and a false oxlip, just coming into flower, a hybrid between a cowslip and primrose, nestling at the base of an old decaying log. One parent preferring the sun, the other the shade, a child of the edge of both conditions.

In my garden hellebores excel, their ancestors I can only assume were planted over many years and finding the conditions so much to their taste they interbred, hybridised, spread and are now so numerous as to form a carpet beneath the apple trees, through a gap which the sun reaches and along a path by the boundary hedge. The previous owner called it the spring walk so perhaps this is where they all began and as they continue to spread I wouldn’t dream of trying to halt their progress.

These are not native plants certainly, but they have found their niche and besides providing food for the big fat buff tailed bumble bees which are coming out of hibernation now, for me they are a joy to see. As the world of my garden wakes from winter, I wander through it and lift their downturned faces up to look at mine. They never fail to make me smile, each one uniquely beautiful and living their best life exactly where they want to be, on the edge.

Waiting for the frogs


The crows are still calling winter as they play in the wind gusting over my wild garden, but from a hedge a pair of robins are singing and from other perches, blue and great tits, dunnocks, blackbirds and a wren join in the chorus. Their tunes have changed in just a week, there are now signs of spring in their songs and in the air. I can smell the green smell of early growth, still faint but it will grow with the leaves.

Today the sun is out, now just that bit higher in its arc and with the first promise of warmth. Encouraged, I peer into the pond looking for signs of returning frogs, but the ripples are caused by mallards, three drakes circling an unimpressed female. I’ll have to be patient and keep waiting, perhaps the frogs are waiting too. I read that spawning can coincide with the full moon shining her light on their amorous adventures, but there are also social media post of frogs back in ponds to the south and west of mine. I persuade myself that the wait won’t be a long one.

The snowdrops are all up, full out and dancing daintily around the garden, they nod to the touch of a single honey bee as she forages, moving methodically, from flower to flower. New hellebores are lifting their heads daily, ready and waiting for the fatter, heavier bumble bees to come searching their wide open faces for pollen and nectar.

The little fat buds of the cherry plums are beginning to open too, single stars for now, individually small and insignificant, but soon they’ll form a frothy white haze covering the trees.

From now on we’ll see more colours ebb and flow as they wash over our gardens, sunny yellow celandines, daffodils and dandelions will give way to waves of bluebells and forget me nots, the blue of the spring sky.

Just like every other flower in my garden they are oblivious to the joy I take in seeing them and I find their indifference appealing and a strange sort of comfort. They will carry on their lives, following the seasons and the sun whether I’m here to watch or not. I like that.


Happy New Year

New year’s day began in my garden without any apparent difference to the one before it; grey, cold and wet. After the fireworks of new year’s eve, what a damp squib.

My first look out of the window revealed three wood pigeons sitting miserably, shoulders hunched in a bare cherry tree, a female blackbird shuffling through the rotting leaves beneath the beech hedge and the only visible bird showing any sign of perkiness, a little wren, her natural demeanour an antidote to a general lack of interest in anything much.

The problem is I think, that for us in the northern hemisphere, January is such an inappropriate time to celebrate anything new and we expect too much of it. The wildlife in our gardens is just concentrating on getting through the winter alive and my over riding emotion is one of concern. For new beginnings, my own favoured date would be the spring equinox on the 21st of March when the fulcrum tips, the days lengthen towards summer and we can all look forward to our gardens picking up the pace of life.

It’s the time for fresh green leaves to unfurl and new flowers to open daily, for insects to emerge and take advantage of flowing nectar and pollen and for the first of our migratory birds to begin to arrive home. The natural world tells us loud and clear through the amplifier of our gardens that spring is on its way and new life is everywhere.

I’m not alone in my preferred choice for a date to mark the new year. I read this morning that the brilliant nature writer Robert Macfarlane would prefer that date too and if we’d been born between the fall of the Roman Empire and 1582 when Pope Gregory X111 decided to change it, we would actually celebrate new year on the 25th of March.

It worked well with our agricultural way of life and much more sensible in my opinion, immeasurably more in tune with nature at our latitude. But as with every other aspect of life that I have no choice other than accept (after I’ve had a grumble), I’ll make the best of it and look forward to lengthening days, less inclement weather and a new year in my wild and wonderful garden. Happy new year!



Solstice

I seem to have been moving slowly this month, dragging my feet towards the shortest days. Not long to go now to the winter solstice and I have become like my garden, hunkered down, just waiting out the dark days while the human world is frantically busy with its heavy sell marketing and last minute panic buy shopping.

There is so much I feel I really should be doing in the pressured days before Christmas, but the dark heavy clouds and cold blustery winds make everything feel more of an effort than it should be.

The birds zipping to and from the seed feeder and squabbling over their position on it show that the need to feed up and keep warm is urgent, each day’s activities compressed into a few short hours before the light is lost again. So short that I find another day has passed and the hedge trimmings I had planned to chop up for compost remain a heap of branches. They sit in front of the bee hive, in nobody’s way but mine and I have no intention of disturbing the bees so there is no rush.

But there are seasonal things to do which won’t wait, like the Christmas tree, a festive wreath for the front door and bunches of holly and ivy to hang inside, both of those foraged from my wild garden. Traditional acts that our ancestors engaged in for generations, that we still follow and which link us to our history and the natural world.

We still bring nature into our homes with evergreen foliage to mark the darkest days and welcome the return of the life giving sun, each species with its own symbolism to past cultures and each still a reminder to us that life outside continues despite the short dark days. The welcome reassurance that new growth will return with the strengthening sun and all will be well.

Our gardens connect us to the natural world like nowhere else, they give us roots strong enough to hold us firm, while like the trees in them, we bend and adapt to the winds of change, wherever they come from.

Our gardens are not spaces for us to exert control, they are places for us to find our inner nature even in the darkest of days.





Changes

Autumn proper has arrived, it barged its way through my wild garden on gale strong winds ripping the leaves from the trees. Nature knows that winter is on its way, the number of extra blackbirds make me think they are recently arrived migrants, poking and rustling about in the undergrowth, hunting for tasty snacks, and the ducks have returned to their cold weather home too, floating sedately on the pond

The garden paths and steps have disappeared beneath the flurry of fallen leaves and on the paving around the house, little mossy cushions have suddenly appeared .They squatted on the north facing slopes of the roof all year, fattening up nicely in the shade, drinking in rainfall. But the recent heavy downpours have dislodged them. and losing their grip of the slates, they have fallen to land bottom side up exposing their shallow hair like rhizoids which anchored them.

I read an interesting phrase in a WWT magazine in which the term ‘management’ was replaced by ‘support’ which I highly approve of, so in that life saving spirit of support I mounted a little mission to rescue those mossy clumps not already shrivelled up by the day’s bright sunshine.

I placed some deep in bedraggled vegetation where I hoped they would find a humid atmosphere and some in the shade of trees where their fellow species of moss thrive.

Near the hive a honey bee was wandering over a deluxe deep carpet of moss which has laid itself over a rough stone where water collects and I wondered briefly if she was ill before I realised that she was actually drinking water from the saturated leaves.

Our garden ecosystems function on so may levels and scales. From their relationships with the larger landscape to the microscopic, and down there in the world of small but still visible things, we have a window onto a wilder world and can begin to see how important plant and animal relationships are.

I’m so pleased that a charity as influential as WWT has made an important change of emphasis to looking after their reserves, it might only be an exchange of one word, but they are words which we interpret very differently and if we gardeners follow the sentiments they embody, they could make a very big change.

My wild garden and I sincerely hope so.

The silver lining

The year is marching on at an alarming speed, bonfire night is less than a week away with its wood smoke smells, loud bangs and for me an internal conflict between what’s best for wildlife in general, hedgehogs in particular and the sheer splendour of our town’s annual firework display.

It usually also comes with the first really cold hands and feet of the season and the first outing of warm gloves and thick welly socks. But my garden seems very behind this year, the Acer palmatum is only now blushing scarlet, as if embarrassed by being late to recognise its seasonal obligation.

The big old hornbeam next door is just on the verge of yellowing and although the sumach, Cornus mas and rowan tree are doing their usual flaming bonfire impressions, the cotoneasters and hollies have not yet lost a single berry to the birds and most of the garden remains stubbornly green, as if still undecided and teetering on the edge of autumn.

Perhaps nagging climate anxiety is causing me to worry unnecessarily, but I do hope my garden’s wild creatures have a better grasp of what’s going on than I do and that their body clocks are keeping pace.

As our climate changes, plants’ flowering and fruiting times affect every creature which has evolved and adapted to live with their provision of food and have arranged their life cycles to suit. When the timing goes awry, it’s called a phenological mismatch and can have devastating consequences to both.

During the summer we can help in small ways, like encouraging Buddleja by trimming its tips to keep producing flowers for the later butterflies,. Sowing annual seed at different times to stagger when different shaped flowers appear for the different designs of foraging insect tongue types.

I don’t weed, so all the lovely native species can flower where and when they see fit to extend the provision of food, and now at the end of the year, there is something else we can do, or more importantly, not do.

Much to my husband’s displeasure, our garden remains untamed and untidy, just as wildlife likes it to be. His human desire for neatness and order is shared by most gardeners in their traditional autumn tidy up, but it’s anathema to nature which has known how to survive the long nights and cold, wet and windy winter weather for many millenia longer than we have.

I like to let nature be herself, when spring comes around we can be more usefully involved again. In the meantime, in my garden the windfall apples lie ready for invertebrates to feed on, the teasel and sunflower heads are full of seed, the hawthorn, wild rose and bay are ready when the birds are, and the ivy berries are now setting and will ripen for a late winter treat.

Leaf litter is beginning to accumulate and as it swirls around and the drifts grow, they’ll stay where the wind takes them and cover the soil in a protective blanket. Hollow stems and spent flower heads stand where they grew and where the overwintering insects now hiding in there found them.

Around the pond the grasses wave their delicate seeds in the wind in invitation, hopefully they won’t fall before the birds feel ready to eat them. But there I go worrying again, if they do, then they will germinate, grow and flower in their turn, all the more grasses and seed for future winters’ birds to eat.

The best thing about my wild garden is that nature is in charge and when the dark clouds loom, there’s always a silver lining, for its wildlife and for me too.


Late flying dragons


Scattered by a gusty wind, the first falling leaves of autumn have now settled over the surface of my pond. As I deliberate whether or not it is too early in the season to bother looking for the big fishing net and try to scoop some out, I take a few minutes to sit on a too seldom used seat and enjoy the un seasonally warm afternoon sun, while I try not to worry about the unsettling reason for it.

My rewilding garden may be full of ‘weeds’ but it still has ornamental plants too, as long as they grow well without input from me and are as useful to nature as our own species, and just by the pond I’m surrounded by the gently waving heads of grasses. The dewdrops of Panicum, Miscanthus feathers and the delicate Molinia spikelets, all looking beautiful to me now, will soon be a living larder for the birds. They, and the low autumn light causing them to shine and sparkle, remind me how much we should appreciate these moments that we perceive to be perfect.

Some garden owners’ interest begins to wane as soon as the flowers fade and brown becomes a seasonal colour again as the greens go. But reds, oranges and buttery yellows are part of the pallet too, appealing to human eyes, in reality they are just an indicator of deciduous plants’ need to recycle nutrients, but no less interesting for that. When we learn a little about our wild gardens’ natural processes, it can open up a whole world of new interest where every garden encounter is intriguing and full of new knowledge which we can then use to act in positive ways to benefit our own and nature’s well being.

The shrubs, trees and hedges are still dense enough with foliage to disguise the goldfinches, dunnock and robin I know from their calls are in there, but it’s the dragonflies that are the obvious aviators here today and as I sit still they amaze me with their speed and accuracy zooming over the water and around the marginal foliage.

A common darter hovers like a kestrel right by my left ear then suddenly jinks away as a pair of hawkers appear twisting and turning together only to quickly disappear from view. I can still hear their surprisingly noisy flight and look up to see them continuing a dog fight up near the top of the birch tree until suddenly there is only one, down by the water momentarily resting on a Iris leaf.

Theirs is life in the fast lane and it isn’t over yet, while there is heat enough in the sun to power their flight, like the bees, wasps and butterflies covering the last of the ivy flowers, our gardens’ insects are still busy about the business of staying alive while they can and when they can’t they will provide a feast for birds.

The year and our part of the planet are turning away from the sun to face the cold of space, nature changes constantly, but life never stops, it works in seasonal cycles and there is a lot of life to see, enjoy and be part of in our gardens still.

Photo of common darter by L. B. Tettenborn, Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported



Gardening on the edge

My garden is teetering on the edge of summer as it inevitably gives way to the beginning of autumn and the seasons blend, ebb and flow in a gently changing palette.

The purple loosestrife towers shocking pink above the pond and wild carrot’s delicate white lace still decorates the meadow lawn but the first colouring leaves are noticeable now, there are apples ripening and as the wild rose hips redden and shine the elder berries drip deep and inky purple from the hedge.

After their post nesting rest to moult and recuperate, the birds are back again and they and we seem to have the best of both seasons. Edges are our garden’s greatest assets, as well as the seasonal ones, those physical edges defining spaces are so important that ecologists give them a specific title, ecotones.

Where habitats come together and overlap their biodiversity increases, ecotones are to be found in even the smallest places, along a sheltering hedgerow, beneath a shady tree canopy and in the slightly damper dips and hollows or compacted patches of a meadow lawn. Along the margins and shallows of a pond as dry land transitions to deeper water and where a gravel path peters out into planting and the opportunities of sharp drainage meet those of more fertile soil, plant species change, variety and biodiversity increases.

We often think that our gardens are too small to accommodate the range of habitats which develop and thrive in the vast rewilded areas we read about, but we mustn’t forget that our own garden is not alone. There is also next door, next door but one, the rest of the street, village, town and onward over miles and miles of gardens.

As the crow flies and looks down, he doesn’t see our own individual patch, he sees a wide and ever changing landscape with opportunities to find shelter and food, big trees to set up home in and the landscape’s edges formed, not just from our built and planted boundaries, but the changes in habitat where diversity is greatest. Even the edges of busy roads where they meet the kerb and collect the occasional unfortunate roadkill victim, he’s not called the carrion crow for nothing!

Selective herbivory

It’s early August and for the time of year my wild garden is as strangely fresh and leafy green as if it was still spring.

It’s too wet to cut a part of the meadow lawn which is growing, as I watch in dismay, into a lush grass monoculture. In June, when parched and bleached to straw, I found that a sharp seeded arable grass had invaded, the emergency cut was too late even then to halt its take over and I can only hope that I catch this second crop in a dry spell before it seeds again.

My attempts at ‘selective herbivory’ need to be more ruthless next time, a very hungry whole herd of herbivores more like!

I think last summer’s heat as well as dog wee enriched soil were the initial reasons for this severe loss of diversity and resulting invasion, but wherever the blame lies the results show how very fragile our well intentioned attempts at habitat restoration are.

As the weather patterns we’re used to seeing inevitably change, we must adapt as well as try to ameliorate the damage where we can, so while I ponder whether to try a rooting pig impression over winter and hope some soil bank wild flower seeds will germinate, I also have a packet of yellow rattle seed as back up.

But there is really very little space in my wild garden for doom and gloom. On the east facing slope there may be losses, but the areas of long grass leading down to the now nearly full to the brim again pond are a frothy confection of wild carrot flowers below which dozens of lower growing plant species are bouncing back and a few like birds foot trefoil are flowering again.

They are just in time for the butterflies, the sunny intervals last week were perfect for seeing them dancing over the garden and having the Big Butterfly Count a great excuse to watch them. Gatekeepers were the most numerous but also red admirals, holly blues, peacocks, small and large whites and a spectacular big bright orange fritillary. They and lots of other insects seem to like the wild oregano which will soon be over so to keep them in nectar for as long as I can I’ve been browsing on the buddleijas, which if nibble away at the terminal flowers with my secateurs, will just keep on flowering all summer.

They seed around when they’re happy, I realise I do have eleven of them now so I think they are fairly content and I hope the bees and butterflies will be pleased too.











My secret garden

At this time of year there are parts of my garden which are almost inaccessible. Weeds and wayward perennials have tangled themselves together in a jumble of lush growth over paths and around the pond and while my feet become ensnared, overhanging twigs and branches catch in my hair and make me stoop to avoid them.

To push through I bend almost double as if in homage to their dominance, but there is method in my seeming madness. Here within and beneath this dense growth there is cover and safety for the small creatures living out their life cycles in privacy. Where the sunlight filters through and leaves are illuminated, insects like butterflies can warm up ready for flight and down in the dark leaf litter below are the tiny things I know are there but are too small or well hidden for me to see, springtails, beetles, worms, centipedes and small snails.

I feel like an intrepid explorer, just meters from my door discovering the wild world my garden is becoming. Peeping out from the dense ivy hedge a baby robin is hiding, a pair of holly blue butterflies are mating on the edge of a leaf and are interrupted by another butterfly, perhaps looking for a piece of the action, and a yellow legged insect I don’t know, either a solitary bee or wasp, flies in to forage on a knapweed flower.

As I straighten up to leave the embrace of my secret garden, around me are meadow lawn flowers basking in the sun and I look up to see a greenfinch perched right at the top of a wayward piece of hedge. I can hear the swifts screaming as they swoop and swirl above me, I do hope they’re finding enough to eat, they’re especially welcome to the midges I realise have just made a meal of me!


Just a theory ...

While I mull over using terms like ‘wilding’ or ‘rewilding’ to describe the progress of my garden from its traditionally managed state to the loose and happy arrangement we now have with one another, I can’t help but be blown away by the roses this year. Those most garden worthy flowers, hybridised and developed from their wild ancestors for human pleasure probably longer than any other plant, and in my garden June has seen them bloom as never before. They have flowered with such generosity that I have to question how the spindly unhealthy plants I inherited ten years ago came to be so spectacular.

After their initial move from the formal rose garden I found them in when we moved here, to an informal mix and muddle along with herbaceous perennials, ornamental grasses and whole host of native plants which have since taken up residence, they have had very little care and attention from me. No mulch, no feed, very little water and perhaps most importantly, no pesticides or fungicides.

Last year’s hot summer and a wet spring might have had a part to play in this year’s abundance, but I have another theory, totally unproven, unscientific and without any evidence but it makes sense to me.

When we buy roses, we’re advised to give them a dusting of mycorrhizal fungi to help them settle in, a sensible purchase as an aid to their welfare, we know now how closely interwoven our plants roots are with the fungal networks below ground and how much they depend on one another. As my garden’s plant diversity has increased, it seems very reasonable to me that its fungal diversity will have increased too and that their symbiotic relationships should benefit both, even those least wild members of their community, the roses.

So that’s my theory, as biodiversity builds up in my garden so does the health and vigour of the plants. As good gardeners have known for years, the answer to most of our questions is in the soil.